


Smile

by Softlight



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Assault, Character Study, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Jessica Jones is strong as fuck, PTSD, Sleeping around, Trauma Survivor, consent is stressed, mentally it's explicit, mentioned rape, mentioned sex and hook up but nothing particularly explicit, well sexually explicit I should say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 03:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8517397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Softlight/pseuds/Softlight
Summary: There's a lot of firsts to re-experience after him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fan fiction, but I deleted it from there and brought it here. A character study of Jessica Jones. Not exactly light stuff, so consider yourself warned. And while I cannot say I have PTSD, I have done research and am a trauma survivor, so if there is anything blatantly wrong or disrespectful, it was not intentional. Please enjoy.

The first time you see a damn purple tie after, you nearly start running.  Whether it was straight for the guy or as far away from him as you could get, you weren’t sure, but your entire body screamed at you to  _ Run, run as fast as you can until you’re done, and then run some more _ .  The bottle you were hiding in the paper bag all but exploded in your grip, and you could just stand there as the liquid wet your hands and fell to the street.

You weren’t sure if anyone noticed the incident, but you jumped inside the alley to your left, chest heaving and panic making your heart beat so fast you weren’t even sure it was beating at all.  You watched the guy pass, just to be sure it’s not him, because even though he’s dead and even though you saw the bus hit him, it still didn’t feel real.  

You trail him for a good long while, just in case, trying to soothe your paranoia.  It doesn’t quite work, and you end up spending the entire night draining bottle after bottle on the fire escape across from the guy’s apartment.  He had a husband, three kids.  Looked to be a nice family.  You kept waiting for something to happen, for him to pull off a mask and start commanding people, commanding  _ you _ , around again.

Your hands shake as you finish off the last bottle you brought, and they don’t stop shaking until you finally fall asleep after dragging yourself off the fire escape at the crack of dawn and back to your crappy apartment.  At least there was more booze back in the apartment, and you can’t quite say it’s home because it’s not home.  Not yet.

You don’t leave the apartment until you run out of booze and the memories are drowning you again.

Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane.

The first time you hear a British accent after, there’s nothing but fury and fear to power you.  The entire bar falls silent, and you find yourself nose to nose with a guy who looked like he was about to wet himself.  Somebody pries you off him, but you accidentally tear his shirt, fists tight and unbreakable.  They calmly ask you to leave, or they’ll call the police, and you hightail it out of there.

You later recall that he’d just been talking about soccer, or rather,  _ football _ , and that doesn’t do much to make you feel better.  Him yelling at the television starts filling your ears every time you see a TV, and God forbid you see the colors of his favorite team.  You can’t help but hate the damned sport, and it takes a while and considerable effort to stop breaking TVs and TV remotes by accident.  You never really liked TV much anyways, but you hate how he’s ruined yet another innocent thing, two innocent things, for you.

One of your first clients was Brit, and you just grit your teeth until she left, almost breaking your desk in the process.  You think she had been nice, and had eventually paid well, but all you can distinctly remember is the blood pounding in your head, waiting for your control to be taken from you, waiting to be under his control again, just waiting for someone to tell you that he’s not dead, and that he’s coming right for you.

You don’t sleep that night, as his voice was on replay in your brain until it felt like he was back in your head.

Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane.

The first time you try to hook up with somebody, eager to get the remnants of his ghostly touch off you, you nearly have a panic attack.  But he has a thick Boston accent, his hands are thick, not slim, and there’s altogether nothing that could remind you of him.  You close your eyes, and try to stamp out his stain with something, someone, new.  

It’s a different experience, being fully in control and not just being ordered.  You realize how it feels to say  _ Yes _ and completely mean it, to actually want it and not just be a puppet, a warm body, a nothing.  You realize how it feels to say  _ No _ , let alone be listened to when you do, because before you never were allowed to let the word even cross your lips.  

You almost break the bed from the anxiety of it all, instincts so used to wanting to flee that it’s second nature, but you screw your eyes shut until it’s over and you can say you did it.

You throw up immediately afterwards in the bathroom, but you doubt he ever noticed.

The night after, you sleep in a bed without feeling like he’s right there.

The night after that, his hands come back full force.

So you sleep around a bit.  That’s fine, you like sex, and it’s not like it’s bad sex you’re having or anything.  You’re always careful, because the last thing you need is an STD or a kid.  The guys are pretty decent, but you always try to pick the ones that are the least like him.  Nothing to remind you of him, because you know your limits.

Eventually you try sleeping with someone who looks a bit, just a little bit, like him, because fuck your limits, you’re Jessica Jones, and you should be able to handle it.  His slim fingers are only just sliding across your stomach when you rocket straight up and run right out of there, yanking your shirt over your head as you run.  You don’t have to put yourself through that, you have nothing to prove, you tell yourself as you run for your apartment, frost biting at your cheeks.

But you have so much to prove, and you hate that he’s still affecting you, still makes your actions revolve around him.

His hands never fully go away, though, no matter how many times you try to banish them.  You call it a good night if you can only feel the weight of his body right next to your own, as though he’s just sleeping a matter of inches away.

Bad nights aren’t fun, but they happen, and you keep the strongest liquor you got and buy a couple cement blocks to break when they do.

Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane.

The first time someone catcalls you, you’re fine.  You keep on walking, hands tight in your pockets.  You just keep walking, and hey, you only flip the car after he reaches out to touch you.  That wasn’t so bad, nobody really saw, and he didn’t touch you.  Not without permission.

Not without consent.

Besides the whole flipped-car thing, you were fine.  Nobody got permanently injured or scarred, and you almost felt like your old self.  Saving people from other people, it was what you did, once.

You don’t realize how bad he fucked you up, not quite then.

Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane.

The first time a piece of shit tries to flirts with you in bar, and you decide to turn him down with your nastiest remark, his eyes narrow and he grabs your wrist.  You don’t mean to, but you flip him, chest heaving, and you realize the entire bar is looking at you when you shout NO.

_ No _ .  A word he should’ve learned long, long ago.

Guys end up flirting with you a lot, and that’s okay, they’re normally not all bad.  You can shut them down pretty quickly, except for the real assholes.  You have no qualms about breaking their hands when they touch you, because they have no fucking right to it, to you.

The first time a piece of shit tries to flirt with you, and you turn him down, and then he laughs and says  _ Smile _ , everything goes white.

The next memory you have is washed in red and sobs, wetness and glass.  You’re told afterwards in the ER that you slammed your fist into his face over, and over, and over, and over again until somebody hit a glass over your head and knocked you out cold.  The doctor tries to come in and examine you, but you don’t stop, can’t stop screaming when he touches you.

They bring in a female doctor, who somehow manages to get you to stop and tell you that you’re safe, that whatever happened to you won’t happen again.  She tries to ask about what she suspects, but your words dry up, and you mutely let her take care of you.  She tells you she’s gotten you off the hook for assault, somehow, and that you should really seek counseling.

You can’t look her in the eyes as you leave, because you know that you’ll confirm what she already believes to be true, and you don’t want that.  You don’t want strangers’ pity, and you especially don’t want a shrink again.

You’d get locked up if you told them what had really happened, and you can’t have that.  Not after just getting free.

So you head home, lock the door tight, bathe the blood from your body, and then you wait until the sun comes up.

You used to believe that the sun chased away all the monsters, that you were safe in the daylight.  You try to let your childhood naivete come over you once again, and you eventually climb into bed, limbs weary and spent.  

Just as you’re about to sleep, just as you feel somewhat safe, his voice jerks you back to the past, and you feel his wet words against your ear as he whispers  _ Smile _ .  You feel your face contort to his demand, and then he gently, so, so gently strokes your face.   _ That’s my good Jessie.   _ His lips are eager and his tongue is wet, and you know the drill.

You don’t stop smiling through it all.

You sit up, heart racing as you search the room around you, looking for him.  There’s nothing there, nobody there.  You’re completely alone, a sort of alone that you haven’t known in months.  There’s absolutely nobody there for you.

You hold your knees until your breath evens out, and you stay there for a long, long while.

_ Smile, Jessie. _

Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane.

Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane.

Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane.


End file.
